Continuity

Now as the smoke begins from chimneys lost

among the hills, and valleys fill with mist

after a cold rain, summer is dismissed

and the first withered stems are gemmed with frost.

The shady mound, lately so softly mossed,

knuckles with ice and whitens like a fist.

Sun-softened hills harden to amethyst.

A new world comes-its glitter and its cost.

Under an August moon I'd seen, beside

the road, dead leaves like ghostly lilies glide,

and after rain seen drops on hemlocks linger

and every drop a little moon confide,

no bigger than the brightest star, inside,

and felt the cold when one rolled down my finger.